Ascend: Leadership Lessons at 28,000 Feet

By Mark Carr

Extreme adventure and elite leadership meet in this spellbinding account of a veteran Fortune 200 executive's quest to conquer the legendary Seven Summits—the highest mountains on every continent.

Are there truly business leadership lessons you can learn at 28,000 feet? Well, put it this way—on the mountain, with hurricane-force gales, extreme exposure, and falling ice-blocks the size of a house, if you don't learn some lessons, and learn them fast, you simply die.

At a time when the rat race has millions of people feeling trapped, discouraged, and drained, Ascend boldly declares you can embrace the challenge of living your dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Publishing Circle
• Release date: Dec 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781947398726

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Mother of Mountains

On the doorstep of outer space, I marvel at where I lie. I am literally at the edge of Earth’s atmosphere where the surrounding sky glows a strange, endless deep blue. I lie in the infamous Death Zone at 26,300 feet above sea level. In the deathly still air, I quietly thank God for bringing me safely to this point. I pray a long, solemn prayer for safety for the remaining and most difficult part of the journey. I am a single day away from summiting Mount Everest, the highest peak on Earth; the ultimate prize for most climbers; the pinnacle of my dreams.

We reach Camp Four on the South Col of the Tibetan side around one in the afternoon. The South Col is a sharp-edged saddle that stretches between Everest and Lhotse, with the landscape belonging more on the moon than anywhere you’d find on Earth. There is little snow as the constant, gale-force winds ravage the Col and sweep it clear of any form of life. When we arrive at camp, I am awestruck by Everest’s majestic yet ominous summit pyramid looming right above me, casting a long, deep shadow over our intended route.

Upon settling into the camp, I hydrate and force down some noodles. Eating is monumentally difficult at this altitude, as your body uses less energy to burn muscle and what little fat you carry instead of digesting new food. In the Death Zone, your body literally cannibalizes itself. Minute by minute, you are actually dying. This is the reason it is only possible to remain at that height for about two days at most.

I hope to get a little sleep, but I don’t count on it. I know if the weather holds, the guides will get us up around midnight to prepare for our final push to the summit. I’m both tired and thrilled, but don’t expect to get any sleep. Probably because I don’t worry about it, I doze off and on for a few hours, even with the discomfort of wearing an oxygen mask. I wake around 8:00 p.m., and although I am incredibly anxious to get out of my tent and get going, I lie in bed, becoming more nervous with each passing hour. I know what lies ahead.

The next few hours feel like an eternity. I want the day to be over. I badly need to know what the outcome will be. Will I make it to the summit? Or will it be too much? After exposure to such brutal conditions for so many days, I just want the climb to be over. Thankfully, there is no wind, and the temperature is only about ten below zero. In my down suit, it is not uncomfortable. Around 11:00 p.m., I can’t remain in bed and get up and begin to pack my gear. Before long, the Sherpas have roused everyone, and it is time to go. Michael, our lead guide—a powerful, sunbaked Montanan with strawberry-blond hair—makes one final, diligent check with the help of our ever-grinning Sherpas. They ensure our crampons are tight, our regulators work, and they set our oxygen flow to the correct level. Too little, and we won’t have the energy to make the climb. Too much, and we’ll run out and die on the mountain. With our headlamps glowing, we begin our trudge out and up the southeast ridge of Everest.

They have assigned each of us a Sherpa. We form a sort of conga line, heading up with Michael at the front, our personal Sherpas with each of us in the line, and one lone, extra-strong Sherpa bringing up the rear. The going is incredibly slow. We have to take one step and breathe for thirty seconds, then another step and breathe for thirty seconds. Even so, I wonder if my oxygen bottle is open enough since it is already all I can do to evenly measure my breaths. Eventually, the line spreads out a little, but I often have to wait for the climber ahead of me to take another step, then wait again.

We are all clipped on to a fixed-line, and sometimes there is just no way to go around a slower climber. Although I consider myself fairly fit and experienced, some climbers pass me going up the mountain. Now and then, I overtake a climber who is slower than I am. I also move by those who have turned back to head down. As we cross paths, they wish me good luck, and I notice the relief in their eyes. They focus only on escaping this treacherous peak. I fend off doubts that try to creep into my head, wondering if they are smarter than me or if they know something I don’t.

I try not to dwell on how extremely steep and painfully cold the mountain face is and the complete exposure I face at the literal edge of the atmosphere. Every time I pause for more than a couple of minutes, the bone-chilling cold penetrates deeper and deeper, like a slow, icy knife. We keep pushing upward and my thighs, arms, and lungs burn, while my skin and bones seem frozen. I tap into reserves I did not know I had, yet I feel like I am running on pure adrenaline. A ghostly, yellow moon begins to ascend far below, but I am too tired to appreciate its foreboding beauty. The stars above are spectacular, but I really don’t care, since looking up takes far too much energy. I keep my head down and focus on my next step.

We continue to climb up and up and up, as the ice turns slick and hard and very, very scary. When I look up, I peer at the horizon, searching for the first rays of dawn. The smallest hope of warmth, or any small comfort, would be enough to convince me to keep going for another hundred feet. Even with double-insulated plastic boots, my feet are literally freezing, and I worry about frostbite. I really don’t want to lose any toes. Finally, we reach the landmark called The Balcony at 27,700 feet. We stop to rest. I welcome the respite, and it’s much needed, but I am growing colder and colder. I long to be back in the searing heat of my hometown of Phoenix. My Sherpa changes me to a new oxygen bottle, and we set our sights on the southeast ridge—1,000 feet of entirely exposed terrain that leads to the South Summit.

We continue upward and, just barely, I sense the sky lightening. The first rays of dawn are breaking through, and I am blessed with a little surge of energy. We navigate over a ridge, and suddenly, right above us looms the majestic South Summit. As the sky lightens, the enormous shadow of Everest’s summit pyramid stretches out toward the horizon. I look behind us, and the entire Earth lies far, far below. I smile at the wonder of such a privilege, my joy momentarily eclipsing the struggle. But my grin fades as I see clouds beginning to swirl in the valley thousands of feet below. My thoughts immediately fly to Jon Krakauer and his book Into Thin Air[1], which chronicles the 1996 tragedy on Everest where many people died after getting caught in a storm that suddenly ascends from the valley below. This worries me. Soon we step up onto the small plateau that is the South Summit. Everest’s true summit is just around the corner, only 300 vertical feet above us. But getting there is the most difficult part of the climb.

What stands in the way is a knife-edged ridge, where being clipped on to the fixed rope is a must, unless you wish to tumble 8,000 feet or 10,000 feet to your death. Suddenly, my foot slips, and I claw frantically at the line to keep from sliding down the ridge. The other climbers brace and steady themselves as I regain my footing, which I thankfully do. I use up precious oxygen with my panicked breathing, and now every step requires focus—something my oxygen-starved brain refuses to do.

Ahead, I see another line of climbers. They are too close. Something is wrong. Many climbers are standing below the step, and when I inquire, I am told the Sherpas, who were supposed to secure the lines up the step, arrived late. This has delayed everything, and I am far back in the queue. The problem is the cold. While you’re moving, it’s almost tolerable, but as we wait and wait on the exposed side of the frozen peak, it feels like my blood is turning to ice. I sigh in frustration as the Sherpas struggle to untangle lines at the top of the step. I look down, and the clouds below continue to rise menacingly. My feet are now totally numb, and I am sure frostbite has set in. Precious minutes pass, and my uneasiness increases. I continue to fixate on the swirling clouds below. How quickly are they rising?

A climber in front of me decides to turn back. Gingerly, we do a kind of one-two-you-go-I-go dance to clip and unclip so he can go around me without one of us falling thousands of feet into Tibet. This climber’s decision does little for my confidence. Finally, the climbers begin to go up, but will still be a while for me. The waiting continues. Is it my imagination, or are the clouds below becoming darker? I am now shivering uncontrollably and am, without a doubt, in the first stages of hypothermia. What follows will be incoordination, confusion, weakness, and apathy.

I am engaged in the greatest mental battle I have ever faced. I have come this far . . . yet I feel like I have nothing left. Do I truly have the remaining strength necessary to summit Everest? Or will it cost me my life?

More importantly, do I even care?

---

[1]  Krakauer, Jon. Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mount Everest Disaster.Villard Books, 1997.

Chapter 2

Embrace Challenge

I grew up in a town called Longmont, Colorado, named after the mountain that dominates the skyline, thirty miles to the west. At just over 14,000 feet, Longs Peak would not be considered a difficult climb for an experienced mountaineer, but for the amateur, believe me, it should not be underestimated.

Since childhood this mountain fascinated me. It truly is one of the monarchs of Colorado, stretching across the western horizon from northern Denver all the way to Fort Collins. My bedroom window directly faced Longs Peak, so for as long as I can remember, this majestic morning vision greeted and called to me. Perhaps I am biased, but I include it in my pantheon of the greatest peaks in the lower forty-eight states: Rainier, Shasta, Whitney, the Grand Teton, and Longs.

I dreamed of climbing Longs Peak and vowed someday I would embrace the challenge. Climbing that mountain became my first major focus—a goal that eclipsed all others. One small problem: I had a deathly fear of heights. At age eleven, my family and I visited Tokyo, and my dad took us on a trip to the top of the Tokyo Tower. Despite the completely enclosed observation deck, nothing could convince me to walk to the windows and look down. I wasn’t afraid of much, but heights paralyzed me. When we arrived home, however, Longs continued to greet me each morning with a regal smile, beckoning me to her summit. I knew she could feel the passion in my heart, but I couldn’t find the determination to answer her call.

Soon after graduating from high school, Todd—one of my closest buddies—asked me if I wanted to climb Longs with him and his older brother, Bill. Todd was 6-foot 3-inches and weighed around 185 pounds, with thighs the size of tree trunks. Born missing one ear, surgeons constructed Todd a facsimile out of the skin so it didn’t look unnatural, but if you looked closely past his curly blond hair, you could see it. It didn’t faze Todd in the least. He was an adventurer.

The brothers lost both of their parents to cancer just a couple of years before, so Todd had to rely on Bill, who was nine years older. Likely due to this life cataclysm, Todd and Bill were ardent atheists, revering logic and science above all else. Predictably, they were also extremely close. When their emotional scars became apparent, my heart broke for them because they were two of the funniest, most fun, and most brilliant people I have ever met. It seemed likely that their intense grief and confusion had contributed to their dry wit and compounded Todd’s hilariously contrarian nature.

Bill stood about the same height as Todd, except he had long hair and sported a thick, luxurious mustache. Bill had always been an exercise fanatic, constantly running, cycling, and lifting weights. He got Todd into running and cycling, so both were incredibly fit, but tennis constituted our mutual athletic ground. Overall, though, I’d have to say Todd could claim title to being the best athlete out of all of us.

When Todd asked me if I wanted to join them to climb Longs, the request provided one of those moments in which destiny blindsides you with a decision. All my life I had wanted to climb Longs, but to this point, I had never faced my incapacitating fear of heights. That day, without hesitation, I said, Yes!

None of us had a clue about what climbing Longs entailed. We only knew what everyone else in the area did: you needed to start early to avoid rainstorms and lightning, and a Longs climb didn’t require any technical gear like crampons or ropes. At least it shouldn’t. Though nervous, I was committed. My lifelong dream lay before me, and I knew if I backed out now, I would probably never embrace the challenge again. Determination drove me forward.

In early July 1980, we left Longmont at 2:30 a.m. so we could reach the trailhead by 4:00 a.m. Thinking back, I shake my head at how ill-prepared we were. We all wore tennis shoes, each of us carried only a couple bottles of water (not nearly enough), and we hiked in blue jeans, cotton T-shirts, and cotton hoodies tied around our waists. We had no idea that getting soaked high up on the mountain, wearing all that cotton would almost certainly result in hypothermia.

Dawn broke just as we got going, which was good since we didn’t have a flashlight and could barely see the forest trail that stretched up the trailhead. Once it became lighter, Todd suggested we put on a display of physical fitness, so we started huffing it up the trail, trying to pass as many other hikers as we could. We did well for a while, but as we gained altitude, our oxygen and youthful exuberance thinned, and we were soon hiking up at a reasonable walking pace.

Before long, we were out of the forest and hiking above timberline. Blessed with a gorgeous day, we couldn’t see a cloud in the sky. Beyond the timberline, the trail felt easy to follow and many other people were heading up, so we had little chance of getting lost. After a couple of hours of hiking, we reached a large area called The Boulder Field, right below the actual peak of Longs. Aptly named, large and small boulders littered the two-acre plateau. Some people had set up tents in the middle of the field to spend a night or two, and we nodded as we passed them and other climbers. Many quickly glanced at our tennis shoes and cotton clothing and nodded back with, what I realize now was, a look of concern or bemusement. We didn’t think much of it at the time.

Our first sign of trouble began when Bill complained of a headache, but he said he was determined to continue. Are you sure? we asked, and he said of course and waved us off. We followed the trail through the boulders and headed to a feature of Longs called The Keyhole. The Keyhole is a gap in a flowing ridge that allows you to pass conveniently from the east side of the mountain to the west side. When the trail petered out below The Keyhole, we just followed the route we saw other hikers taking up to the feature, unaware the climb would soon change drastically.

Passing through The Keyhole was mindboggling. To that point, we had followed a gentle, upward slope for about four miles, but I now stared down a straight drop, hundreds of feet into Glacier Gorge. Suddenly, my stomach lurched, and I desperately fought off a panic attack. I looked to Todd, who sensed my fear. He told me not to look down. I looked to my left instead and found the route the other hikers were following. They were heading south, traversing a series of narrow ledges, each about three-foot to five-foot wide, marked only by red-and-yellow bullseyes. My stomach flipped again.

At the same time, Bill announced his headache had become severe and too distracting for him to continue. I’d heard altitude sickness could cause headaches like this, so I wondered if it would only get worse the higher we climbed. Bill had been very strong on the hike since he was so fit, and I knew he’d been powering through the pain so far, but we all knew it was not a good idea to traverse the narrow ledge in his state. For the first time, I became a little concerned that we may have bitten off more than we could chew. After a few minutes of contemplation and persuasion, Bill decided to turn back. Although disappointed at losing his company, I suppose Bill’s dilemma provided a distraction to my acrophobia, so Todd and I bid him adieu and continued.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but lessons of leadership began to form. Sometimes people have outlying situations or simply don’t have the skills to do what is asked of them. It would have been risky for all of us had we pressured Bill to keep going, so we placed no unrealistic demands on him. This would turn out to be a crucial decision.

We turned to face the ridge and carefully started navigating the slabs. I kept my left hand on the rock wall above the ledges to reassure myself, and as we walked across, I desperately tried not to look down into Glacier Gorge. Step by painstaking step, yard by yard, we eventually stepped across the last ledge and heaved a sigh of relief. Our relief vanished, however, as we looked up at the next challenge—The Trough.

The Trough is a 600-foot couloir (or steep, narrow gully on the mountainside) going straight up the face. To that point, we had been faithfully following the red-and-yellow bullseyes. Suddenly, we faced a dilemma. The people above us had abandoned this marked trail into the middle of the couloir and instead headed up the left side. Being naïve eighteen-year-olds, we kept going, following the conventional trail markers, heading right into the middle of the deep trough.

Before long, we realized why taking the middle hadn’t been our best idea—the incline steepened, and we found ourselves climbing on rock mixed with snow. We had been unaware that, despite it being early July, when you get above 13,000 feet, the mountain would still show spring-like conditions. In a couple of weeks, the ice and snow in the couloir would melt, but at that time, the red-and-yellow bullseyes led us directly into a steep climb on ice. We realized we were in big trouble.

Todd moved directly above me, kicking footholds into the ice and snow with his tennis shoes. He repeatedly told me to not look down, but of course, I eventually did. When I did, I could see that if either of us slipped, we would fall hundreds of feet to our deaths at the bottom of the rocky Glacier Gorge. When Todd said, Mark, if I slip, don’t try to catch me, okay? I’ll just take you along with me, I began to panic. Seeing the fear in my eyes, Todd reassured me he wasn’t going to slip. He also remained calm, which did the most to somewhat abate my anxiety.

A strong temptation was that safety lay only ten feet away on the rocks to our left. Thankfully, we were smart enough to know trying to traverse that ten feet of ice sideways in our tennis shoes would be suicide. Going back down seemed even more dangerous, so we had only one option left: continue to climb upward and slightly angle left, when possible, to eventually reach the safety of the rocks. My stomach knotted up, and I began to pray like the prophet Daniel in the lions’ den.

Gingerly, Todd continued to punch handholds and then footholds into the icy snow as we inched our way upward.

My muscles began to burn, and my exposed hands grew numb. Soon my legs shook uncontrollably, which scared me even more. Fear’s icy fingers gripped me firmly as I realized one wrong move or muscle failure would mean certain death. I’d never been so afraid in my life. From the bottom of my heart, I begged God to deliver us out of the mess we had gotten ourselves into.

Six inches by freezing, aching six inches at a time, we meticulously made our way up the slope. I kept telling myself to take deep breaths and stay calm but remaining calm became more difficult with each foot traveled. At this point, I had to have a pep talk with myself. I had envisioned climbing Longs my entire life, and specifically had envisioned what it would be like to stand on the summit, looking down on my teeny house from the monarch of the front range. In the middle of crazy fear, numbing pain, and exhaustion, I had to dig deep to keep that vision in front of me. I steeled my resolve and tried to focus all my energy on reaching the rocks.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Todd reached out with his left foot and gained purchase on a protruding piece of granite. He pushed up higher with his right foot and could then grab a solid hold with his left hand. He pulled himself over and took a huge breath of relief from the safety of this rock. Todd then turned himself around, anchored his feet and legs, and reached down to me with his hand. As I inched up to where he had been, I grabbed his forearm and he pulled me to safety. As I collapsed on the slab, I looked at how far we’d come. In total, we had only climbed about twenty feet up and fifteen feet to the left.

After about five minutes, the shaking stopped, and I calmed down a little. After another five minutes, I gathered the courage to look down to where we would have fallen. I was utterly mesmerized. Dropping hundreds of feet to land on a rocky bottom would have been a terrifying, painful way to go. Neither of us said a word. We simply sat there for a long while, lost in our thoughts of how foolish we had been and how blessed our escapade hadn’t turned fatal. I thanked God over and over and over for protecting us.

Sitting there gathering myself, I reflected on how and why we had made it. I concluded that Todd’s leadership with a slow and steady pace, as opposed to fast and erratic, made the crucial difference. I shuddered to think of the outcome had I been with a less even-tempered or hasty climber. More importantly, my vision of seeing my house from the summit kept me going. I wanted that so badly. Holding that vision allowed me to push through my fears and aching muscles. That desire had likely saved my life, too.

After sitting silently for about ten minutes, we gave each other a knowing glance and started to laugh uncontrollably. Slowly, the tension coursing through our bodies released like steam from a pressure cooker. It amazed us how naïve we’d been, ignoring the other hikers’ path and blindly following the bullseyes onto the ice. We marveled at how ill-prepared we were, too, climbing the ice in our tennis shoes. We laughed as only eighteen-year-old kids who think they are indestructible would. This gallows-humor moment may seem strange, but it helped tremendously, and after a few minutes we were in good enough spirits to move on.

We trekked up The Trough, finding our own sketchy route through the rocks on the left side. Our improvised route required slow and cautious movement—not to mention we were now climbing in pretty thin air. But we finally made it to the top of that stretch. Well, almost. We had one tricky maneuver left: up and around a giant boulder that marked the end of The Trough. Thankfully, the move up and around the boulder wasn’t too difficult, but I didn’t look down once.

I became a little somber as I realized the next challenge would be The Narrows. This part of the climb worried me the most.

I had heard about The Narrows, and what I’d heard troubled me. The Narrows is a thin, exposed ledge that crosses the south side of the mountain. At certain points, it is only a foot wide with a drop of 200 feet to 300 feet off the right side of the mountain. Once again, I gathered all the courage I could muster and told myself if I could climb a face of ice in tennis shoes, I could navigate The Narrows. The trouble was, I had expended a ton of energy so far.

We set off, and our first challenge loomed: we needed to climb our way around a couple of badly positioned rocks. Again, I kept my left hand on the rock face to the left as a means of feeling some kind of security as I warily traversed this ledge. This time, I actually looked down a few times, since I wanted to really see and feel what the exposure was like. A feeling of both exhilaration and terror filled me.

Todd had no problem with this section and went across much faster than I did. Even so, after only a few minutes, we were both across and ready for the final pitch of the climb. This section is creatively called The Homestretch. I had heard The Narrows was scary, but this looked ridiculously daunting, especially after all we had endured. Three hundred feet of steep, smooth rock slabs lay between us and the summit. I had no idea how we could scale this in tennis shoes.

Despite my misgivings, we began the steep ascent up the slabs and basically friction-climbed, using our hands and feet. Friction climbing is a method that sort of comes naturally—you keep your arms flexible, elbows slightly bent, with your fingers stretched out to the sides. You also keep your butt out,